


Speak, Memory

by RavenAurelieChoiseau



Series: Teen Wolf and Vampires [4]
Category: Staus, Teen Wolf (TV), The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Advice, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Music, Anal Sex, Art, Artists, Awkward Romance, Beacon Hills (Teen Wolf), Books, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon Related, Concerts, Dates, Doppelganger, Drinking & Talking, English Manners, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Family History, Fireplaces, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Going on Dates, Historical References, Inspired by Music, Kissing, Klaus Mikaelson Has A Heart, Klaus is Gone for Stiles, Klaus knew Stiles' ancestor, Letters, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Music, Musicians, Mutual Pining, New Orleans, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pining Klaus Mikaelson, Private Concerts, Protective Elijah Mikaelson, Protective Scott, Protective Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Relationship Advice, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Romantic Soulmates, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, Stiles is a classical pianist, Talking, Vampires, Warlocks, Werewolves, Wooing, rating is for future chapters, some tags are for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/pseuds/RavenAurelieChoiseau
Summary: ‘Have you ever seen a wolf in the throes of change, Stiles?’ Klaus asked.Stiles gave a curt nod, his shoulders stiffening in memory. Scott had been near uncontrollable that first night. Since then, he’d seen more than his share of shifts. More than he’d have ever liked to admit.‘Yes, I see from your eyes you have. Well, Henrik and I were caught in the middle of it.'_Klaus invites Stiles to New Orleans to play at his funeral. Such an odd request brings the two strangers together. The vampire is overcome when he meets the young musician and his suspicions are confirmed: Klaus had once been a lover of one of Stiles' ancestors- and Stiles is his doppelganger.One memory in exchange for every piece executed- Stiles decides to extend his stay and play for his employer. Klaus regales him with tales about his past. Romance is not lacking as Klaus tries to woo his new friend, taking him on dates. They ride an imaginary line between history and a need for connection and affection in the now. Neither imagines how easy it will be for them to fall in love.
Relationships: Klaus Mikaelson & Stiles Stilinski, Klaus Mikaelson/Stiles Stilinski, Staus - Relationship
Series: Teen Wolf and Vampires [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795606
Comments: 38
Kudos: 161





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you give this labor of love a chance. It's *basically* canon-based both show-sides, but the AU is Stiles is a musician and little things like Klaus having met Stiles' ancestor obviously didn't happen but I thought woud have added an interesting twist to their romance.  
> I've done a lot of research to make the historical references as correct as possible. I'm a pianist and violinist myself so I hope to add my part in the passion for the music presented. This is being elaborated outside of here with my original characters as well into a novel I'll be publishing in two months.  
> Thanks for reading!

Klaus settled himself into the chair (which he’d strategically positioned by the fireplace at a 45 degree angle to Elijah’s) and tipped a wine glass to his lips. The color of the liquor matched the tint of his mouth exactly, his lips pursed over the rim like a bloom opening in the morning sun.  
Shutting his eyes to savor the layers of the vintage, he failed to ignore his eldest brother who had barged into the family home as if he'd owned it. As usual, he'd done so in the name of ‘family bonding’.

Elijah was the perfect representation of his name, rigid and irritatingly overprotective. Though Klaus recognized that unlike Kol, Elijah sought to find the good in everyone, he almost gave humans a benefit of the doubt they sometimes did not deserve. Weren’t they horrible to one another and acted like the Earth was a self-replenishing banquet?  
Perhaps Klaus was just feeling particularly lonely and jaded, he concluded. Maybe he was lacking a suitable distraction to his bitterness. 

'What’s this silence, Niklaus?’ prompted Elijah, who turned a perfectly coiffed head to face Klaus, experiencing a measure of patience and serenity which had been so rare in the darker days. He'd since learned to manage Klaus' moods. 

He didn’t think his sibling was aware, but Elijah had noticed it: Klaus had changed. A welcome thing (which was a first for someone of his occasional and all-encompassing passionate nature). The tension in his brother’s shoulders was now careless ease that came naturally to him, not the forced performance he kept up for ferocious appearances in front of boring humans. The smiles came easily, too. Bright, lasting things with only a hint of cruelty at the edge of his lips, which Elijah somehow appreciated. After all, what was Klaus without a little cruelty?

He supposed it was a blessing that this metamorphosis had been turned outwards, unleashed on the creatures of greater evil known as humans (although it was debatable whether there were any more dangerous creatures than vampires?)  
If he’d pushed that sentiment inward, as Klaus had done in the past, it would have culminated once more in great bouts of depression and spirals into abysmal darkness. Paintings that would have put Picasso's Blue Period to utter shame.  
That’s not something Elijah wanted to deal with anytime soon. Preferably never again.

“Niklaus, don’t ignore me. You’re acting… strangely.”  
‘What’s so odd about being quiet and trying to enjoy a glass of wine?’ Klaus turned sea-flushed eyes at him. He'd all but poured himself into the seat just like he'd poured the wine into his glass.   
Elijah, instead, looked uncomfortably stiff- clad in a three-piece suit and sat upright, as though he were expecting an important guest. It was a striking contrast to Klaus’ lax position in tight jeans and his body hugging a soft long-sleeve t-shirt. How similar they were, and yet how different.

Elijah lifted his index finger to his lips. ‘I think you’re losing your mind, brother. I’ve found no reason to celebrate the day of my turning, much less name it my funeral.’

‘We died then, didn’t we, on some level? Surely that horror could be classified as some kind of end?’ It was something Klaus had been pondering for a long time. (Centuries).

‘Well, yes- of course. But a funeral is to put a person to the ground and we are not human, Niklaus, much less dead. And heaven knows none of us want eternal rest.’  
Elijah steepled his huge hands, and dragged his words out to silence Klaus, who had a habit of interrupting him. “Your young pianist is expecting something different from what you’ve got planned, I fear.’  
Klaus uncrossed his legs and took another sip. ‘He’s not _my_ young pianist, Elijah.” For some unknown reason, he felt like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar whenever Elijah mentioned his little pet project. Why did he have to always feel his brother's searing scrutiny like a second-degree burn?

‘Oh really? Then why did you choose him of all the pianists available? From what I’ve discovered of the young man, he is unusual. A past rife with…abnormalities and tragedies. He comes from a town full of supernatural occurrences to boot.’

‘You had him investigated?’ asked Klaus with an arch of his dirty blonde brow. He had no need for such frivolities, for if a man dared cross him then the unfortunate fellow deserved whatever he got.

Elijah smirked and tugged on his check-patterned tie. ‘Do you not know me? Naturally I had him investigated. I have every new person who’s coming to this house vetted. I nearly lost you, brother, I’ll not chance it again.’

‘Must be a tiring job,’ chuckled Klaus, ‘being my babysitter for a millennia.’ 

Elijah pretended it wasn’t a jab and tipped his gaze while Klaus’ mind returned to the pianist without any shame. ‘Ah, his name. I was meaning to ask you.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Elijah bent his head in curiosity. 

‘His name. Mieczyslaw Stilinski. It struck a match in my memory. Do you remember I had a friend like that once, your ex-schoolmate, the skilled violinist? In Poland. Do you remember?’

‘Polish,’ Elijah nodded in recollection. ‘Wonderful virtuoso. You mean the one you bedded, brother?” he paused for effect. ‘Perhaps a descendant?’

A flush colored Klaus’ cheeks, and it wasn’t from the wine. ‘Yes. The one I bedded. Thank you as always of reminding me of my libido. Still, if it were his blood, wouldn't that would be coincidental? If that were really his ancestor?’

‘Now I know for certain you have a romantic interest in this man. Wouldn’t it be inappropriate for you to sleep with him if you’d once been lovers with one of his great-great grandfathers?’

Klaus rose, a sense of propriety on these matters very distant from his view on things intimate.  
‘Now Elijah, why on earth would I think that odd? That poor man is centuries dead and buried. It’s the curse of being a vampire, is it not? A little familial repetition is bound to happen. Now, he’ll be here any minute, brother. Be so kind and bugger off? I should like to entertain my guest alone.’

Elijah huffed out a laugh and flowed out of the chair in one swooping move, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from his impeccable suit. ‘As long as you don’t eat the young man and leave me to clean up the mess, do what you will, brother.’

Klaus grinned. “Don’t I, anyway?”  
“Yes," Elijah admitted with heavy heart. 'I’ve learned the hard way that your fiery penchants cannot be reigned in. If you can seduce this young man, more power to you. I’m off to see to some city matters. Let me know when it’s safe to come home, hmm? Wouldn’t want to interrupt you mid-coitus.”  
  
Klaus wasn't able to contain his amusement. It rocked him until his wine swished in his hand. ”Elijah, you give me too much credit. I wouldn’t dare touch a hair on his head the first day we meet.”  
  
Smirking, Elijah turned on his perfectly polished Italian heel. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. Either way, we both know poor Mieczyslaw Stilinski doesn’t stand a chance.”  
  
When his brother had left, the door latch clicking into place as the ghost of his steps echoed through the manor, Klaus turned a contemplative eye to the fireplace. How wrong Elijah was, he mused. In reality, this whole project had nothing to do with sex at all.  
_

Pursuing most arts made humans rather solitary creatures. Writers, artists, musicians- the training and dedication necessary molded people into individuals of habit and careful consideration, used to the company of their own demons more than living, breathing things. (Often enough, those very demons were also kinder in disposition than critics).  
At least, that was how Stiles Stilinski fancied himself after countless years of study and reflection: a reasonable man.  
  
He’d lost count of how often he’d stared at his reflection in the onyx depths of upright pianos- until he was good enough to pass to Steinways and world stages.  
Being nervous by nature would have normally been a hindrance, but when Stiles sat down at the keyboard an almost surreal calm overcame him. He understood music- it belonged to him. Spoke to his soul – poured out from that soul through his fingers onto the ivories- and into the hearts of his audience. He'd seen people cheer him- weep over his performances.   
It was exhilarating.  
Music had made him passionate- life in Beacon Hills had made him careful. Stiles took no decisions until they had been turned over in his mind and he’d accounted for all facets. Stiles also liked to believe that in life, everything had an explanation. You only had to look deeper to unearth the secret corners of a mystery. Being a lover of solving puzzles, he was intrigued by the one currently in his grasp.  
Here in his fingers was an enigma. Like any other pianist, he’d received commissions to play for an event, but unlike any other request, it had come in the form of a letter on parchment paper. Now, it was strange that a man would send letters in the twenty-first century, and yet, what was odd wasn’t so much the medium as were the contents. 

His phone shrilled and as the first notes of Mozart filtered into the room, he thumbed the little green button.

‘So, you decided yet?’ asked Scott through greeting. He’d called him that morning to tell him about the letter and ask his advice on what to do.

‘I don’t know man, it’s seriously confusing. And you know I hate being confused, Scott.’ Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, something nagging in his chest. “I keep staring at the thing and I’m like, is this a joke?”

‘It wouldn’t hurt to at least go there to see if it’s real, would it? I mean the guy’s paying you to go to New Orleans _all expenses paid._ Shit, I’ll pretend to play piano and go in your place.’

‘Maybe you’re right," Stiles turned the letter over in the light of his lamp. 'I mean, I have experienced worse things than funerals for strange old men.’

‘What makes you think he’s old?” Scott asked.   
“Dude, who sends letters now, with wax seals and all?! I don’t even where to get stamps now.”  
Scott chuckled into the microphone, the phone poised dangerously in the crook of his neck. “Um, the post office, just guessing off the top of my head? Anyway, come on! Just go. If the guy’s a total creep, you leave. That’s that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I think I’ll go. Thanks, man.”  
_  
  
Stiles, being a person who found it worthy to assign circumstances to things, had immediately come to a series of decisions once he’d opened the letter. First, he believed the sender was a man timeworn and articulate. He wrote so eloquently and with such aged mannerisms, it had to be the case. 

_Dear Mr. Stilinski,_

_My name is Niklaus Mikaelson. I’m a patron of the arts from New Orleans, LA. This is an invitation. After I spent the better part of a week listening to you play at the Mezzo Interlude in London, I became enamored of your work. You played Fantaisie-Impromptu with such beauty and finesse it reminded me of dreams and butterflies and I have to admit it remained with me for days after. Even now, I find it hard to dispel it from my mind. So much a welcome distraction it was!_

_That being said, I would like to enlist your services. When I discovered that you were also an occasional resident of my beloved New Orleans orchestra, I became impatient to hear you play again. One must not let such a chance cart by them. It would be most unfortunate._

The next part made Stiles think the guy was strange. Not the kind expected of old men, but the variety that made one doubt another’s soundness of mind.

_I would like you to play at my funeral, which will be on the 30th of this month. There won’t be any other guests, as I would like the entirety of your performance to be private. Please get back to me so preparations can begin in haste. Also, you will not need to hire a piano as I already possess a Steinway grand you will find perfectly tuned the morning of your performance._

What sane man would actively plan their funeral down to the music details unless they were planning to kill themselves soon?! The notion sent chills down his spine, but at the same time, it intrigued him. Stiles had never received an offer like this before, and it was likely he never would again.

Stiles’ mind rushed with questions. What pieces would he play? Was he up to the task? Why did he suddenly worry so much about impressing a dying or suicidal man?

Finally, the part that truly sealed the deal.  
_Within this envelope, you will find some compensation for your time, of which more will come after your work is done. I trust it’s sufficient for one with a talent such as yours. Contact the name within to receive all the documents for your travel here to Louisiana._

_Sincerely,_

_Niklaus Mikaelson_

Stiles had let out an astonished breath and opened the envelope to discover an amount which caused his eyebrows to travel into his hairline and his Coke Zero to make its way into his windpipe and nearly out his nose.  
He hadn’t recovered since. Thankfully, he needed his hands and not his voice for his performance.

Dialing his agent’s number, Stiles read the check one more time. Okay, it was worth looking into, for sure.  
He was a tad giddy with expectations and a little nervous- the type of nervous that made him play impeccably.


	2. The Meeting of Centuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You look exactly like your namesake, Klaus wanted to confess, but held his tongue. Yes, he'd seen him in concert. He'd seen him on posters. But getting the confirmation in person- it took a millenia of resolve not to show even a hint of his inner panic. Here stood Mieczyslaw Stilinski, doppelganger of Mieczyslaw Stilinski.  
> _  
> Stiles arrives in New Orleans and is very surprised to discover who his patron really is. Equally shocking is Klaus' realization: Stiles' great-great-grandfather had been his lover.

Two people cloaked in shock occupied the room.   
First was Klaus.   
You look exactly like your namesake, Klaus wanted to confess, but held his tongue. Yes, he'd seen him in concert. He'd seen him on posters. But getting the confirmation in person- it took a millenia of resolve not to show even a hint of his inner panic. Here stood Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Doppelganger of Mieczyslaw Stilinski.   
Perhaps, if time and circumstance allowed, one day Klaus would tell Stiles the story. Their first time meeting was not the right moment, though. For now, Klaus was enjoying the view and the memories that came with it. The resemblance could be no other phenomenon but that, he'd have to tell Elijah. This truth scattered Klaus’ concentration for a moment and his skin burned from the recollection of Stiles’ great-great-grandfather’s hands sailing over his skin.  
He wondered without much surprise if Stiles felt some kind of ancestral rebirth in his presence? And the other part of Klaus, the less rational, asked the question that spiked heat through his core: was Stiles just as skilled a lover as he was a pianist? The prospect of discovery made his pale cheeks dusk pink.  
  
And then there was Stiles.  
“Well, I’ll be damned.”  
Stiles, who had steeped in preconceived ideas before even arriving in New Orleans, wavered in front of Klaus Mikaelson, fully overcome by the pleasant and sobering experience of being wrong.  
Deliciously so.  
Sienna eyes raked over Klaus’ finely tailored suit, the pressed shirt that peeked from between the lapels of his form-hugging obsidian jacket beautifully stretched over what he imagined being perfectly sculpted abs.  
It made Stiles swallow hard. His gaze flitted up to the tie tucked in at Klaus’ pale throat, framed by a jaw slightly dusted with fair hair.  
And then there was his face.

*******  
  
Stiles shuddered and his limbs twitched. He nearly lifted a palm as though to shield himself from the man’s magnificence. Before he took his breath away, it was with hastily gathered wits and some share of grace that Stiles stretched forth a shaky hand and introduced himself.  
“Mr. Mikaelson, I’m Stiles Stilinski. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The playful simper on Klaus’ beautiful mouth was all for Stiles, and the evident way with which his heart thundered in his chest meant he had this man’s attention.  
Perfect, Klaus concluded. This was the reaction he’d been hoping for.  
Though his hair was a tousled gorgeous honey kiss that gave him a somewhat approachable air, Stiles was sure as day that Niklaus Mikaelson was not purely human. The man closed a big cool palm over Stiles’ warm one and morphed his simper into a cordial smile.  
And had he seen somewhere before? _Another enigma. The plot thickened.  
_  
“The pleasure is all mine. And please, call me Klaus. My step-father was Mr. Mikaelson.” He spoke with the arrogance of someone who expected his name to be known and… did he detect it? ...feared?  
If the man was stunning before, his voice made him positively intoxicating. He spoke with a crisp British accent which was lightly influenced by the consonant-heavy, French-influenced tongue of the residents of New Orleans.  
Jesus Christ! With considerable effort, Stiles cleared the rock in his throat and unstuck his words from the roof of his mouth. ‘Klaus it is.’  
The pianist had yet to meet someone whose face matched the one before him. He was most definitely young by his looks, but he possessed an air of such old age the notion sat deep in Stiles’ bones. The man gazed at him in what appeared to be quiet recognition with penetrating, bluebell eyes. 

The stance was somewhat imposing despite them being the same height, and Klaus boasted a grace that was decidedly rough at the edges. Were Stiles an author and not a musician, he might have described him as ‘ruggedly and breathtakingly handsome.’

‘May I show you around?’ Klaus offered, loosening the knot on his tie. It was getting warmer in the room. With a lingering stare over his shoulder, he motioned in the hallway's direction. ‘This way… if you please.’

Stiles followed the man down the corridor like a puppy on a leash. There was a certain allure to him, Stiles wasn’t able to identify it. A familiarity?  
For the second time in five minutes, Stiles’ breath hitched.  
The longer they walked, the more Stiles realized this was no mere house. The only other building of such expanse and wealth he’d ever seen was the Hale Mansion, but that had long been a burnt skeleton of its former glory due to the unfortunate circumstances of the family’s tragedy.

‘I’m on time, aren’t I?’ Stiles glanced at the watch on his wrist, noting the obvious absence of any other people. ‘I know you said there would be no other guests, but I thought you just meant it would be a small gathering.’

Stiles fought the palpitations in his chest, but it was difficult when Klaus pirouetted in place, coming to a halt mere inches from his face.  
‘No, Mr. Stilinski. You’re right on time. However, I will be your only audience today, so be at ease.’ Klaus ushered them forward after that with a flaired wave of his hands.  
(His backside was just as impressive as his front, Stiles noted with pleasure).  
  
The Mikaelson’s manor was an impressive one and fit right in with the artistic beauty of the French Quarter- the high windows and white pillars complementing the architecture perfectly. Even the indoors had that southern decadence people came to expect from homes like this. 

Meanwhile Stiles wondered if he should ask that which weighed like darkness on his mind. ‘Mr. Mikaelson,’ he forgot himself.

‘Do call me Klaus, darling.’

 _Darling. Oh God._ ‘Ah, yes… Klaus,’ his name tasted sweet as syrup, a smooth roll off his tongue. ‘Pardon my confusion, but I’m to play a funeral, and you aren’t dead.’

At this, Klaus rested a hand on Stiles wrist, provoking a stifled gasp. Stiles’ brain fizzled, the spot of heat in his belly expanding. They’d stopped before a huge mahogany door and Klaus turned to him with a mischievous grin.  
‘Certainly not. Do I look dead to you?’ he lifted both their arms in query before letting him go.

‘No, no,’ Stiles stuttered. The man blazed with life! ‘But you asked me to play at your funeral. Or was there a misunderstanding?’ Stiles shook his head and passed a palm over his neck, still aware of the ghost touch.

‘No misunderstanding, Stiles. May I call you Stiles? Such formalities I’ll leave to my brother, who appreciates them more.’ A quick wink and Klaus tapped a finger to his lips. ‘You will play in the ballroom, by the way. I hope Steinways are satisfactory instruments?’

‘Of course.’ Was he kidding? They were the most popular concert pianos on the planet.

With a flair for the dramatic, Klaus pushed open the doors and swept out a splayed hand for Stiles to precede him into the room.  
It tickled something within him, that simple gesture. As Stiles passed, he caught a whiff of the man’s cologne- something earthy and spicy that tingled and lit tiny fireworks on his skin.  
He wasn’t supposed to find his employer attractive- but then again Klaus was supposed to be a 90-year-old shriveled man, wasn’t he?

The ballroom screamed opulence and Stiles, whose bank account shed tears of agony each day from sunrise to sunset, shook his head in disbelief.

‘You see Stiles, I am…and I say this with a vague knowledge of your history so I shouldn’t shock you…a vampire. Well… more than that, but a vampire at the very least. I assume you know what that is? Any of those back home in Beacon Hills?’ he lifted a sensual brow.

And so the enigma was solved. While Stiles was pleased with the fact that it was no longer a mystery, he also came to the chilling realization that he was now occupying an empty mansion with an immortal creature that folklore claimed drank the blood of human beings for sustenance.

_Is that why I’m here? As food? Do talented people taste better or something?_

Stiles groaned. He remembered telling Scott he’d encountered worse things than strange old men, and now that caused him to scoff out loud. Realizing he’d been silent for a while, he trained his gaze to find Klaus before him, reverance painted on his face.  
Strangely, almost in a comforting sense, he found that he wasn’t in the least bit frightened at the man’s stare. Stiles just knew the vampire did not want to kill him.  
  
He cleared his throat loudly. “I know what a vampire is, Klaus. Quite the celebrity in the supernatural world. Although to be honest, I thought when I left Beacon Hills, I had left all things supernatural behind me. And no, we don’t have any there, as far as I know. We’re more a haven for werewolves and such.’  
Stiles gave a rueful shake of his head and smirked.

Klaus snorted, his tawny hair shining like spun gold beneath the lit chandelier. ‘Left behind?’ he crowed. ‘Oh I assure you, darling, New Orleans is quite the melting pot of supernatural creatures. In fact, I daresay it rivals your Beacon Hills in all things that go bump in the night. _And the day_.’

Leaning in to emphasize the last three words, Stiles’ dimpled cheeks pinked up when Klaus goggled at him.  
“Then this place will feel a lot like home,” Stiles managed.  
  
There went Stiles’ pulse, fast as a hummingbird’s, but there was no fear in his regard for Klaus. Such beautiful eyes they were, Klaus mused, two orbs of amber, thickly lashed, and so expressive.  
He was stunning, proven by Klaus being unable to peel his gaze away. ‘There would be worse places to call home, I suppose. Shall we?’  
  
Stiles nodded, on the surface quite calm. Something about the quickness to his expressions, though, said a thousand assessments passed through his head even at this moment. Klaus wanted desperately to know the man’s every thought, his every wish.  
‘You know, Klaus, you might be right. Although I must admit embarrassment at finding none of… your kind before today.’

It was fascinating the way the vampire’s first name came easily to his lips, as if he had been saying it for much longer.

‘Ah, the creatures in New Orleans are more…discreet. And most of us can’t walk in daylight. We’re stealthy, if you'll allow me the term. It may or may not be my doing’ and in his smile, Stiles confirmed his arrogance and in his viking blue eyes, which crushed his body once more, he saw the lust and the violence.  
Instead of turning and fleeing, however, Stiles suppressed the warmth spreading across his torso and ventured towards the grand piano which lounged at the center of the room.  
  
Klaus watched him in breathless amazement as he took a place on the bench, placing his fingers on his lap and interlacing them. A gesture which was second-nature to any pianist waiting to begin.  
‘Were you always a vampire?’ Stiles wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch the keyboard yet.

‘Not at all. I was mortal once, just like you.’

‘What happened?’ Stiles’ fingertips tingled with the desire to play. He tacked on the rest: ‘If I may ask.’

‘I went to see the werewolves with my brother Henrik. You see, as a boy, such things were irresistible, but not wanting to go alone, I took him along.’  
Klaus paused and turned to Stiles with a murky shade clouding his stare. He placed a hand to his throat, as if he’d conjured Esther’s necklace to hang at his breast once more. The very thing that had kept him weak... Was his softening towards this human making him weak?  
  
‘Have you ever seen a wolf in the throes of change, Stiles?’

Stiles gave a curt nod, his shoulders stiffening in memory. Scott had been near uncontrollable that first night. And since then, he’d seen more than his share of shifts. More than he’d have liked to ever admit.

‘Yes. I see from your eyes you have. Well, we were caught in the middle of it. Henrik was mauled to death because we could not protect ourselves. Soon after, my step-father convinced my mother to cast the immortality spell on our family. Thus, we became the progenitors of our species. The Originals.’

‘So you weren’t bitten?’ asked Stiles with surprise. ‘I thought all vampires had to be bitten to be changed.’

‘Oh, they do.’ Klaus grinned darkly, tugging on his sleeves to straighten them. ‘Just the ones that came after us.’

Stiles wondered if he should tell the vampire that his best friend was a werewolf. An alpha, for that matter.  
_Probably not.  
_And yet if he knew where he came from, he also knew who his friends were. People like Klaus left nothing to chance. 

‘So you see it as your funeral?’ he changed the subject to the task at hand. 

‘Naturally. My mortality died.’

‘Then I shall play something befitting.’  
Stiles stretched to limber his fingers. Did a couple scales to make sure the piano was in tune: it was pitch perfect.  
Yes, he knew just the piece with which to begin. He’d played it for his parents atop a hill while the breeze blew autumn leaves into his face. It hadn’t been a flawless execution at that time, he'd been much too young. But his mother had been so content to listen to him play.  
It was the last time they had been together as a happy family.

‘ _Adagietto in Mahler’s Fifth._ Fitting for a funeral. If I may?’ With the tilt to his face seeking consent, casual Stiles had been transformed into performer Stiles. The mere touch of the ivories threw a switch inside him. This was his sacrifice, his genetic legacy- his gift to his mother and his livelihood.  
  
‘Please.’  
Klaus’ voice interrupted his thoughts, but it didn’t matter. With a chest inflating inhale he began, his fingers wandering over the keys- from memory and feeling. They were home to him, the ebony and ivory cold and hard but at the same time warm and familiar.  
  
Klaus was entranced- he soaked up Stiles playing, letting each flexing tendon and muscle move him. Dark head bent and eyes closed in concentration, Stiles was in as much a trance as his benefactor.  
Klaus didn’t need to see to know Stiles’ fingers were darting across the keys fluidly, like a dancer on a lit stage. The music took Klaus by the hand and pulled him into the past. To loss and death. It filled him up like running water into a glass until the feelings spilled over and his fingers shook and his lips murmured the notes. Sweet heavens!  
Everything in Klaus shook… tears brimmed and spilled from the corners of his eyes.

Stiles let the music sweep him away with his audience, humming along so softly it was nearly below his hearing threshold. It soothed them both, he and the vampire, swooshing over them like easy waves in a restless ocean.

Ah the ocean, it was like feelings, wasn't it? in the way it crested and crashed, bringing bright seashells to your feet or resurfacing dead hopes and dreams.

The notes filtered out and as though he had been holding his breath, Klaus exhaled when it was over, his chest falling, a withered smile blooming upon his lips.

‘You play hauntingly Stiles,’ he breathed, swallowing back the choke. ‘Coincidentally, I have a bit of a preference for Mahler’s pieces.’  
The way the vampire pronounced _Mahler_ alluded to his origins. _Maw-luh.  
_  
The cadence and crispness of the voice, Klaus’ scent… his very presence all crept over Stiles’ flesh as his carefully stacked emotional defenses broke down. He looked up at him from half-lidded eyes.  
‘Playing is like breathing to me. I speak more clearly when my words are conveyed as notes. I don’t know if that makes sense. Do you play any instruments?’

‘A little piano, a little cello, as my brother would pull me into it while we were young. He always loved to play accompanied. I remember us beneath the sagging eves, with insects buzzing in our ears, and the birds singing songs we tried to recreate. It was magical. However, in the arts, my painting conveys much more than when I do so with music.’

Stiles wished Klaus would never stop speaking. He desired to know more, much more about him.  
Was this commission finished? Just one piece? One hour?  
  
‘You have a brother. You mentioned him earlier. How he’s more formal?’

Klaus withdrew his gaze from Stiles, rose from the chair into which he’d poured himself, and strolled towards a drink cabinet near the edge of the room.

‘Ah, yes. Elijah. You missed him by an hour. He was most skeptical about you. He asked me what manner of man would accept such a request. It was quite like him, however, because though my brother strives to see the best in people… even despite their numerous faults, he is still a cautious man.’  
Klaus turned with a bottle of wine in one curved, pale hand and two flutes in the other. ‘Pray to tell Stiles, why _did_ you accept my unusual request?’

Stiles steepled his fingers together and observed Klaus pour two glasses of champagne. ‘I’ll say it was my curiosity that influenced my decision. I was intrigued to know what sort of man _would_ make such a request.’  
  
Stiles’ body flushed scarlet under Klaus’ scrutiny. He could feel himself boil inside his suit. ‘To be honest though, I was under the impression you were a strange old fart who was contemplating the end of his life.’  
At this Klaus chortled in laughter. As he handed him a glass, a drop of its contents spilled onto Stiles’ hand. Stiles tamped down the urge to shiver with want as their fingers brushed each other, his groin tightening.  
Klaus smiled widely. Would the pianist leap into the air if he brought his hand to his lips to lick away the vintage? He studied him with such captivating, wide eyes he wondered if Stiles could read his mind.

There was no way this could end here.  
  
‘Stiles, I’d like to discuss something with you.’ Would this be the beginning of the end? Was Klaus compromising himself?  
Oh, the torment Elijah would subject him to when he found out!  
Klaus had yet to ask the question but the lit hope in Stiles’ wet stare had already supplied him his answer.  
‘Would you like to extend your stay and play for me a few more days?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving this a shot! Stay tuned for more!


	3. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘What shall I do with you, Mieczysław?’  
> All of Stiles' primal senses were suddenly heightened; Klaus’ scent enveloped him like a dense fog, something balsamic and slightly sweet which also triggered a memory from his childhood.  
> _  
> Klaus and Stiles grow closer together. Family tragedies and romantic notions weave a tapestry for them that is increasingly more difficult to ignore.  
> Elijah has some reservations and suggests Stiles consult his son for some advice.

‘What shall I do with you, _Mieczysław_?’  
Arousal flooded Stiles’ nostrils, fanning the embers that had sizzled in the back of his mind since they’d met. Klaus’ burned sugar voice locked him into a position on the bench; he was frozen in time and place.  
  
All of his primal senses were suddenly heightened; Klaus’ scent enveloped him like a dense fog, something balsamic and slightly sweet which also triggered a memory from his childhood.  
It was all around them- a sensory delight, and Stiles’ body tightened with yearning. The hum in his brain increased and it took a while for him to register that the thundering in his ears – it was his heart, his declaration of life, now become a declaration of adoration.

Stiles shut his eyes to this admittance, swallowing hard. He knew it was wrong- this was his employer- his patron- a vampire! So why couldn’t he bid himself to stand and flee?! Stiles’ eyes jolted open, as did his body into a quiver when a voice breathed against the sensitive skin below his ear.

'Why Stiles, you look positively stirred.'  
Klaus stood at his side, bent to him with words of promise, moving the molecules of air around him like a caress. Whirling around, he appeared right in front of him, eyes like molten sapphires glittering in the candlelight.  
Stiles had forgotten how to breathe somewhere between his startling nearness and the awareness he wanted nothing else. Stiles should have at least tried to resist… 'I-' he stuttered, smacking his lips thickly. 'I work for you. I shouldn’t-'

Cool yet soft hands bracketed his face and a tongue came out as if to lick at the seam of his lips- but didn’t.  
'If you wanted to leave this place, I couldn’t stop you, Stiles. Where no desire lies, no will is done. And yet I would be so disappointed to see you go. I think you enjoy our time together just as much as I do.'  
  
Rooted to the spot; tiny gasps escaped his lungs in rapid succession. He blinked and the scene steadied, then it shifted once more. Nothing helped chase the urge away.  
  
‘I shouldn’t.’ Stiles whispered, melting into his touch. 'You’re my patron.'

He couldn’t even twitch. Something was clutching at him from within, and as if he’d been possessed his scarlet cheek found a home against Klaus’.  
So close to his mouth… so close to… it wrung him inside out, the want.  
'Oh Stiles…what do you say?' Klaus begged, fingertips buried in Stiles’ hair. 'How about we come to a resolution of sorts? I fire you, therefore you are no longer in my employ, and then this pesky conflict of interest holds no weight. We can move on and explore our relationship further. In a new way. A more'… Klaus paused and drew in more of Stiles’ spicy scent, moistening his lips with his own in a chaste press. '…satisfying way.'  
  
With that innocent peck, whatever resolve Stiles had left quickly dissipated.  
The men leapt at each other, in a clash of teeth and tongues they took each other with a savage intensity.  
Sucking, licking, tasting, and nipping at any flesh they found bared, the men gripped each other with great urgency, bodies eager to mesh, opening themselves fully to their primal desires.

The kiss was a fierce thing for Klaus, ripe with hours of yearning and centuries of longing. They kissed away their loneliness. They kissed to forget, their mouths hollowed to feel something fill their souls again… different from what their aching hearts were used to.  
The room filled with unabashed pants and moans. They were fused for what seemed so long it was difficult to know when they’d even begun. Stiles felt drugged, his thoughts sluggish, every cell in his body filled with one insistent obsession: to be with Klaus.  
The thought consumed him and in the brief moment when they broke, it had him reaching for the vampire once more.

Filling his hands with Klaus’ tawny waves, he slanted his lips across the gap of his fiery mouth. He took his time, reveling in small sips of Klaus’ taste, drowning in everything that was Klaus Mikaelson.

 _Just one more and I’ll stop,_ Stiles told himself and yet, he continued.  
'Klaus…'  
'Stiles!'  
'Klaus!' it was muffled against his neck.  
'Stiles!'

_  
  
'Stiles!'  
Klaus had been calling his name for some time. Stiles sat at the keyboard, staring with glazed eyes at his idle hands. He shook his head as if he were waking from a dream when his name finally registered.  
He was crawling his way back from something he’d been retreating to for a few days. Erotic daydreams about his new employer; body-rousing in detail and intensity. He wasn’t spared this torture even when asleep- Klaus haunted him every night.  
  
'Stiles, is everything okay?'  
If there was one thing he’d never been able to do, it was conceal his feelings. Some days Stiles felt like an open book, thumbed and flipped and marked until he was dog-eared with exhaustion.  
He would have made a terrible spy.  
  
The expression Klaus read in his probing stare when he angled it to him was one of obvious embarrassment and… titillation. This was the fifth time Stiles had come to the manor in the past ten days, but today Klaus sensed he was especially distracted.  
It was amusing but also inspiriting. Perhaps not unlike Klaus himself, their time spent together was effecting on their sentiment?  
  
'I’m sorry, I was daydreaming a moment. Please forgive me,' Stiles muttered.

‘Not at all. For a moment I worried you’d forgotten the notes. Don’t fret, we have most of the classical and jazz staples in the library in case you ever draw a blank.'  
'It won’t happen again.'  
  
Umber eyes swiveled back to the ivories. It was the one excuse Stiles had not to openly gawk at Klaus in poorly veiled appraisal.  
Klaus had dressed more casually once Stiles had agreed to stay on. From a tailored Italian suit he was now poured into a Henley shirt the color of robin’s eggs and jeans that left very little to the imagination. A cloak of raw sensuality added to the perfect male physique on display for him daily.  
It was becoming increasingly more difficult for Stiles to think of Klaus as being old or timeworn. He looked Stiles’ age and not a day over- which added to the conflict they’d found themselves in the middle of.  
Because unknown to Stiles, Klaus had meekly lowered his eyes more times than he could have ever seen to hide the pang of attraction he felt.  
  
'Can I ask you something?' Klaus pressed his back into the chair where he normally sat when Stiles played, crossing his right leg over the left. 'Did you not experience even an ounce of trepidation when I told you what I was?'

‘Some,' shrugged Stiles as he did his warm-ups. Short bits of scales muted the silence. ‘After all, what is a man without fear?’

‘Dangerous,’ came Klaus’ brusque answer. Exhaling again even though he possessed no need for it, Klaus thrust his hands into his lap and pursed lips that looked as soft as clouds.  
He would not give consequences to diseased hopes.

‘Enough solemnity’ said Klaus with a tilt of his head and a sparkle to his sky eyes. ‘Why don’t you play something more cheerful today if you will, Mahler and his cohorts were always in dreadfully low spirits.’

‘You speak as though you knew the man,’ Stiles smiled, his dimples popping. It pierced through Klaus in the way of a lance, as though a match had been ignited and dropped in his belly, smoldering and smoldering until the pianist’s smile fanned it with vigor.  
  
It was not an expression that in its purity Klaus had seen in quite a while, for it crept up Stiles’ face and settled in his honey eyes, warm and inviting, just like his posture earlier.  
Legs spread, arms twitching from the need to touch, grab.

_Inviting? How he wished…or was he wrong?  
Perhaps there was hope yet.  
_

‘Oh, I wish I didn’t, darling. Though inarguably talented, Mahler was most distasteful. Moody, authoritarian. Even in a group of them his need to be the only composer in the room was infuriating. I daren’t even call us friends because that man rarely let anyone in. I had to quench the urge to feed him his wayward tongue quite a few times.’

Stiles shifted on the bench and snickered, intrigued. This was the first time Klaus was so forthcoming about someone else from his past. Most of what they’d discussed in the last days had been his family’s history.  
He couldn’t help himself and stopped to stare. Here was a man who had lived several lifetimes and still remembered every single one- all while looking 30 and devastatingly handsome.

  
‘Please play Stiles, something with a little bit more romance to it. I’ve missed that in my life.’  
Stiles’ fingers hovered over the keys. There was a warmth spreading across his chest and flooding his face at the way Klaus beseeched him with his gaze, with the layer of sadness to his confession. His patron’s tone was rueful and somehow sweet.  
He wondered briefly who the vampire had loved and if he’d ever known heartache. He must have had so many lovers over the centuries… Stiles dared a glance at Klaus again and colored a rich crimson. Of course, they must have all loved him, look at the guy! he thought.  
  
Stiles turned his attentions to the Steinway again and this time, he played a piece he’d hammered out on his piano repeatedly since he’d received his acceptance letter to Juilliard all those years ago. It was a score which made him happy and yet coaxed out the forlorn as well, for he had been overjoyed at achieving the first phase of his dream with it, and miserable that his mother was not there to witness it.

 _Claire de Lune.  
_ Klaus recognized it as soon as the first notes filled the air. Music was his language and he spoke it nearly as well as Stiles did. What was not spoken within the melancholy notes tugged at Klaus’ soul: a story of loss and emotional intensity, and when it brightened from a dark hue to a summer-kissed one, so changed the narrative. He heard gladness and let it envelop him, warm and light like Stiles' touch over the keys.  
Magnificent.  
When it was finished, the last notes still hanging in the air like delicate paper lanterns before their lights were slowly dimmed, Klaus glanced at him nervously from lowered eyes.  
‘Why did you play that?’ he asked through gravel.  
Stiles had cut out his heart with each bar, stitched it together and handed it back to him again. And now Klaus was the one who was stirred…aroused. Terribly so.  
  
He cleared his throat to loosen the lump that had formed there. ‘It was the only thing I could play for days after my mother died. She loved this piece so much,’ he sighed. ‘She used to say it suited her mood whether she was happy or sad. Most of the time, though, she was sad.’

 _It speaks to you Stiles, the music. All you have to do is listen._ His mother would say that on her good days; the days she’d still worn a big smile.  
  
‘What happened to her, if I may ask?’ Klaus drew his lips tight, wishing it wouldn’t be inappropriate to reach out and swallow the man into his embrace. His distinguished face had become brooding, darkened with a melancholy Klaus understood all too well.

‘She suffered from frontotemporal dementia,’ said Stiles in a low, solemn voice, sniffling as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe errant tears from his eyes.  
  
Klaus stared wordlessly at him, wishing to take Stiles’ pain as his own. The sudden urge to save him from those awful memories lent a heart rending tenderness to his gaze.  
“Stiles,” it was barely above a whisper. It sounded apologetic. Capturing Stiles’ focus he swung his head around.  
Klaus stopped himself from rising in his chair. He himself had lost so many loved ones. So many. Time spared no one in the life his kind knew.  
  
“I know, Klaus. Thank you.” Stiles closed a moist palm over his shaking hands. It still tore at him sometimes, speaking of his mother. He had been so wrecked, so steeped in grief he still wasn’t sure how he had come out of it.  
Perhaps it’d been their common love of music and the beautiful gleaming piano that had made its way to the house mere days after her death.

_Did you know we come from a long line of musicians, Stiles? Just like your name is a legacy, so is music. We’ve had all kinds in the family… pianists and violinists- even a French horn player. You play only if you want to, my dearest Stiles, but if you do, take solace in it. Music can give you what nothing else in the world can: inner peace._

‘Although her song is ended, her melody lingers on.’ Klaus couldn’t resist, it seemed out of place not to comfort him. He sprung from his perch and in one swoop was at his side. For a long moment they studied each other. Klaus placed a consoling if not trembling hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

Their breathing came in unison and if either had just advanced an inch, they would have kissed.  
Instead, Klaus just kneeled there. ‘I would hear you play for me again,’ Klaus murmured, the invitation for more than that resting in the smoldering depths of his eyes.  
  
‘It would be my pleasure.’  
Stiles stumbled back to his hotel as if drunk. The afternoon and all its enchantments made a buzzing mess of his mind and heart. He couldn’t wait until tomorrow.  
_  
  
The notes still danced through Klaus’ head as he walked the wine glasses to the kitchen. He tried to relieve himself of the burden that was Stiles’ scent still clinging to his hand, but couldn’t bear to be rid of it.  
‘He’s still here. You were supposed to engage him for one evening.’  
Elijah. He filled the doorway with his taut frame, arms crossed over his chest and a sour expression creasing his face. Klaus fixed him in a blue-eyed vise. ‘I’ve asked him to stay on. I enjoy the company. I think he needs it, too.’  
  
The worry he felt translated into skin drawn tight with fatigue. Klaus’ need for connection, it was part of the change Elijah had perceived in him. But was it also blinding Klaus to danger?  
‘Brother, you’re falling for him.’  
  
Fingering a tea towel which he threw over his shoulder, Klaus, almost without realizing it, raised a languid hand and touched Elijah’s cheek tenderly.  
'I fear we’re well past that, Elijah.’  
A palm fitted over his, Elijah sighing as he brought his fingers to his lips. ‘Oh Niklaus. I fear this won’t end well, and I don’t want to see you hurt.’  
  
Klaus braced himself, wagging his head. He needed this, he wanted to explain to him. Why couldn't Elijah see how alone and miserable he'd been lately? ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I’d be facing an eternal _what if_ if I didn’t pursue this. That man… his… _his soul._ You haven’t heard him play, you haven’t spoken to him.’  
‘Perhaps it’s time we met, then.’   
  
Arching an eyebrow, Klaus started. ‘Really? Do you want to?’  
‘I feel I should. Klaus, does this have anything to do with his ancestor? Have you even told him?’  
Klaus flinched visibly beneath the interrogation. ‘No. Stiles is ten times the man Mieczysław was. Ten times. It has nothing to do with him.'  
‘Are you going to tell him or not? That he’s his…?’  
  
Flinging the towel to the counter, Klaus sagged toward him with an exhaustion that betrayed his age. ‘I don’t know. I don’t see any advantage in it, and yet they’re identical and that has meaning, doesn’t it?’  
Elijah spread his arms regretfully and shrugged. ‘I don't know. And I can’t make that decision for you, brother. It might mean nothing at all. Perhaps you should look into that before doing something rash. Why don't you talk to Marcel? His connections with the witches might prove useful.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Marcel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus visits Marcel and asks him for a favor.

It was to all extensive purposes an old library. Shelves bursting with volumes covered every spare inch of space. The Mikaelson family home had one as well, more impressively stocked, but then again they’d had centuries to complete their collections. Thick books also littered the enormous mahogany desk, some stacked and some open. All of them looked well read.

The man handling the heavier works was dark-haired, wearing a white shirt that hugged his broad back and sporting a pair of dusk blue jeans. Rolled-up sleeves revealed wiry forearms with pronounced veins. It could be no other. 'Joshua,' Klaus ducked in as he knocked on the wooden doorframe, signaling his presence. 'No surprise finding you here.'

The other man in the room rubbed his light beard as his tired gaze flitted up. 'Klaus!'  
Marcel hauled himself up from behind the desk and came in for a hug. Josh fell close behind him. 'Klaus, how have you been? Have a seat.'

It was a pleasant discovery, to be welcomed so warmly. And Klaus’ face-splitting grin showed his elation.   
Though they'd put all their differences behind them, the prospect of seeing Marcel was still something that made Klaus apprehensive.  
The emptiness of an armchair in front of where Marcel had been sitting called to him.  
'Spring cleaning?' Klaus asked, smoothing the fabric of his shirt as he pulled himself upright.  
'More like inventory,' Josh replied over his shoulder. He was listing books on an app as he put them in some semblance of order.  
'There’s so many now and they’re all out of place, we don’t know what’s hiding in here.' 

There was a question mark forming in the soft flesh between Marcel’s manicured eyebrows. As much as he loved getting visits from his maker… 'So what brings you by? You said you had some questions?'

'I think this might be something you can help me with, Marcellus.' His name rolled off of Klaus’ tongue so prettily.  
'Is it a private matter or can Josh stay?' Marcel fell back comfortably into the cushion, almost as if he were on the verge of crossing his arms behind his head and swaying there.  
A cloud of dust billowed around him and Klaus coughed. 'Housekeeper on vacation?' he quipped. 'And yes, Joshua can stay.'

'Apologies,' Marcel threw up two open palms and shrugged. 'Had to fire the help.'

It would seem that way, Klaus mused. Shaking his head, he chuckled softly, taking another gander around the room. 'Well, it fits a certain goth, Addams Family chic. If that’s what you’re going for, well done. Very _Interview With The Vampire_.'

The books absorbed their sudden laughter. Marcellus dragged his chair forward, wagging a finger at him. 'It’s nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Klaus. But seriously though, what can I do for you? It’s not often you come over to my place, to what do I owe the honor?'

Clasping a hand onto his thigh, Klaus leaned to slide a file in his direction. 'I’ll be candid with you.'  
Sharp eyes sized him up and Klaus returned the intensity of the stare. Marcel squinted, steepling his hands on the desk, giving Klaus his full attention. Whatever this was, if it prompted him to ask them for help...  
Even Josh stopped what he was doing and balanced himself against the shelves with his elbow.

'I engaged a musician to play for me about ten days ago. I was intrigued by him, as… I believe him to be a doppelganger of my ex-lover, his great-great-grandfather. When we met, I got confirmation that he was identical, physically at least. Now things have… complicated.'  
'Klaus,' Marcel sighed his name, an inkling of where this might be going urging him to open the manila folder. When he studied the attached picture, he raised his ebony eyes. A slow smirk hid Marcel’s true feelings: he was relieved he’d found someone.   
'Is the complication that he’s handsome and you’re taken with him?'

Klaus bowed his head and clapped, not in the least bit shocked. 'Bravo. I always knew you were smart. _And he's not just handsome. He's... talented and deep and..._ '  
'Well, I’ve known you a minute, Klaus. The only thing about this that truly baffles me is that it took you this long to find someone to love.'  
He meant it. He'd been worried about Klaus, probably for the same reasons Elijah kept him so near.   
  
'Love is a big word, I mean-‘

’Father-‘ Marcel only called him that when he was facing something serious or calling him out.   
’Okay. Fine. So perhaps destiny has a way of throwing us in front of our fates.' Klaus flipped a worn picture between two fingertips that he’d been holding in his pocket. It was faded and bent over two corners.   
Marcel glanced at it and then put up Stiles’ picture to the same scrutiny. 'I’ll be damned. They’re identical twins. Down to the moles…'

Clasping two hands over his shoulders, Josh peered down and gasped in agreement. 'Yup, the same guy.'   
Klaus pleaded with them, using more his strained expression than his words. How could he make them understand what he was feeling?!  
'I need to know if this is a genetic hiccup or if this man means something more. If he is Mieczyslaw’s doppelganger than why am I… '

'Hold on,' Marcel tilted his head, fingers reaching out and closing over his. Not withdrawing from the touch, Klaus squeezed, lungs deflating in a vast, tired sigh.  
'You’re already gone for this guy, that's clear. Now you’re wondering why it’s happened so quickly. The theory there must be a supernatural connection to the bond you feel so inexplicably swiftly and deeply, I'm assuming. Klaus, this isn't that far-fetched. Think of sire bonds.'   
  
He was right. This wasn't as crazy a notion as he’d initially wagered. Waiting for the words to settle, Klaus merely nodded, not trusting his voice.

“That’s so romantic,” Josh exclaimed, but then stifled his enthusiasm when Marcel glared up at him and whispered "Dude, read the room."

“You’ll find what you need in here, his name… personal details. And the information on his ancestor.” Klaus repeated, tapping on the file.  
“Thorough…” Marcel said as he flipped through the documentation.  
“You know our Elijah. His attention to detail is unparalleled.”

“Oh, believe me, I remember,” Marcel pushed back in his chair, dragging himself shakily to his feet. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask a few people. I got you.”  
“Thank you,” Klaus breathed, tugging on his sleeves. Bending at the waist, he straightened his spine and stood. “Please don’t spread this around,” he stated the obvious. “I can count on your discretion? This man means something to me and I don’t want to tarnish that with rumor.'  
“Count on me.”

“Yeah, we’ll find out something in a couple of days. There’s a warlock I can contact that deals with these things,” Josh added. He grinned, and Klaus’ gaze darted back and forth between him and Josh. “Thank you both. Anything you need, let me know?”

Raising his arms, Marcel threw them around Klaus, who stiffened a moment. He still wasn't used to this.   
“Don’t think about it for now, okay? Just enjoy yourself? This butterfly stage doesn't last forever.” 

What a surprise, Klaus said to himself, rocking lightly in place until they let each other go. He cleared the emotion from his throat. “Right, well, I’m off. Anything you find, you call me.”

“I’ll put Josh on it immediately.” He indicated his best friend with a bend of his head and Josh flashed Klaus a smile as he took his leave, feeling no less relieved than when he’d walked in.  
_

“I’ve never seen Klaus this smitten.” Marcel licked his fingertips, flipping through the material. The file was very complete, he’d concluded after a full perusal.  
He opened it in Josh’s direction and pointed to a section towards the bottom, highlighted in yellow. “Miecz.. Mi-ecz... Jesus, it’s a mouthful. Anyway… look where he comes from. Who his parents are.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” Marcel interjected. “Beacon Hills’ own. Don’t we know his best friend from somewhere? Scott McCall?”

“Yes. The Alpha from the Beacon Hills pack. One of them had come through here. Do you remember? A lot of these new wolves are wonderfully progressive, don’t you think?”

“If you say so,” Marcel laughed, shutting the folder.  
Marching away smartly, chest out, Josh hung for a moment at the gap the open door had left.   
“You know who I’m going to visit, don’t you?”   
  
Head up, his sculpted arms folded tight as a gate, Marcel leaned back and shut his eyes. His face was grim. “Oh, I know. Kaleb. Just don’t tell him you’re helping a Mikaelson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading. Stay tuned!


	5. From Ravel to... Unravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus and Stiles share an outing together. Each time they see one another brings them that much closer together.

If Stiles thought Klaus was resplendent in a suit, he was downright devastating in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket.  
Requesting a meeting over coffee for the following morning, Stiles had responded in the positive almost immediately (and much too enthusiastically). He felt a sense of dreamy anticipation overcome him that heralded back to his school days.  
Stiles, much like Klaus, agonized over what to wear for nearly an hour, the butterflies in his stomach giving him no rest.  
Without knowing it, they both had settled on something casual.

The moist air clung to his skin and the thought of seeing Klaus so soon flushed his cheeks pink. Stiles was a quivering mess when Klaus flashed him a bright smile from his seat at the café. He quirked an eyebrow when he recalled the lore.

‘You’re in the sunlight.’

Klaus leaned back and grinned widely. It was the kind a person had when there was a secret to be kept behind his teeth. ‘I am, aren’t I?’

Stiles was finished. He opened his mouth a few times before the question finally made it past it his lips. ‘How do you do it?’

‘I’ll tell you if you promise not to breathe a word to anyone.’ Klaus’ tone was conspiratorial. He leaned forward, his sea foam eyes holding Stiles prisoner. ‘ _But not yet._ ’

He let his fingers fall over Stiles’ and the man before him stilled.  
It was all so electric, this mood. A mere graze from Klaus painted him the color of fire. Klaus wanted nothing else than to gather him into the circle of his arms and kiss him, but he held himself fast to his chair.  
“Please, have a seat. Let’s order some breakfast.”  
_

‘When did you start playing?’ The question was sudden, even as the vampire handed him a cup of steaming coffee and a ham and cheese croissant. Stiles wondered stupidly if the man drank his with a dash of blood, then berated himself.

Inhaling the black swirling liquid and sighing, he studied the café where they were situated. The setting out here amidst the quirk and spice of New Orleans differed greatly from the old-world feel within Klaus’ manor.  
He found that he missed it. He also missed the privacy. Stiles wanted Klaus all to himself.

‘I have been thinking of the way you play. It is so familiar and yet so unique I feel like I've heard it somewhere before.’

‘Maybe an ancestor?’ Stiles joked, but the chuckle died while still in his throat when he glimpsed the seriousness in the vampire’s features. Klaus froze in his place and his brow furrowed in thought. _Don’t say it. You don’t know what it means yet._

‘Perhaps,’ he cleared the grit from his gullet and averted his gaze to a mother and two children walking past them. The boy held his sister’s hand and their eyes laughed with innocence and joy. Something in Klaus awakened, causing him to wince. They were distant memories, but there had been simpler times for the Mikaelsons as well. Though briefly, he and his siblings had lived such levity.

Returning to the original question, Stiles set the cup down after taking a sip. The sun cleaved his face just right, lighting half his hair a fox auburn. It gave him such a summery glow that Klaus almost forgot himself. ‘I played at 4 when my father brought home one of those plastic toy keyboards. I banged around with it for a while to the ire of everyone in the house before my mother sat with me one day and taught me _Fur Elise._ That started it all. It was our thing, I guess.’

‘Sounds like an amazing woman.’ said Klaus with a twitch of his lips. He imagined a heartwarming scene of a boy and his mother sharing lazy afternoons at the piano, her stroking his hair lovingly as he drank in all her knowledge. It must have been nice.

‘She was.’ Stiles’ gaze blanked with faraway, loss-filled eyes looking at something past Klaus. Far into a past he’d spent time trying to bury.  
‘She’d played too before I was born, but after I began my lessons, that’s when she started getting sick. The music- it runs in the family.’  
That it does, Klaus wanted to confess. His ancestor had been a formidable one.

‘I’ll bet your father was ecstatic.‘ Klaus tipped his head, fiddling with a piece of pastry. ‘The two of you, tapping away at all times of the day…’

Stiles nodded, amusement flickering in his face. ‘Oh, he was. Especially in the year of the Hanon exercises.’  
  
All too aware of what they were, Klaus bit off a hysterical chortle. Marcel had had a hand at those as well, under Elijah’s severe instruction.  
They both watched a man stroll by with his dog, and it left an easy pause between their words.  
‘He said as long we made music, and we were happy, he was fine.’

The seat suddenly felt uncomfortable. The café too busy for his taste. Casting a glance around, Klaus rose. ‘Walk with me darling, it would be a shame to waste such a gorgeous day in one place.’

Klaus was stunning. Even if he frowned, but especially when he flashed such an adoring look at him. Stiles made a most pleasant discovery then: he could not deny this man anything anymore. He’d never want to deny him any wish. 

They moved with a slow gait, watching their shadows threading in front of them.  
  
‘What are your favorite pieces?’ Klaus had an idea they were probably Romantic. Those composers spoke to the Poles, to their spirit. He remembered reading about it once, the name Chopin had given it.  
 _“Once, the Countess d’Agoult asked Chopin “by what name he called that which he enclosed in his compositions, like unknown ashes in superb urns of most exquisitely chiselled alabaster?”_  
 _“Conquered by the appealing tears which moistened the beautiful eyes,” continues the flowery Liszt, “with a candor rare indeed in this artist, so susceptible upon all that related to the secrets of the sacred relics buried in the gorgeous shrines of his music, he replied that her heart had not deceived her in the gloom which she felt stealing upon her, for whatever might have been his transitory pleasures, he had never been free from a feeling which might almost be said to form the soil of his heart, and for which he could find no appropriate expression except in his own language, no other possessing a term equivalent to the Polish word Zal! As if his ears thirsted for the sound of this word, which expresses the whole range of emotions produced by intense regret, through all the shades of feeling, from hatred to repentance, he repeated it again and again.”_

‘Hmm,’ Stiles looked into the sky if only to pretend as though he did not see the envious, lustful looks shot at Klaus by those who passed by them. It made his jaw tense. His hand itched to reach out and take Klaus’, show everyone that he was his.  
Instead he fell into step beside him, basking in the comfortable silence between them.  
‘I wouldn’t say I have a favorite piece, there are several I love to play.’

Klaus had never been so attuned to another’s emotions before. Each flit across Stiles’s face, each tightening of his fingers, each spasm of his lips resonated within him.  
It was a fantastic thing, this connection between them, like easy flowing rivers joining into tributaries.

Stiles turned to Klaus, who gave a slight notch of his chin as if to say ‘continue’. The movement caused his hair to flop onto his forehead and Stiles bit his lip. Yet another battle raged within him, this one pushing down the urge to discover whether those strands were as silky as they looked.

‘I mean, my favorite is probably Chopin. But I love the Romantics… those capable of painting an entire canvas just with music and emotion. There’s the piece my mother would play to me when I sulked in my room. It sounded like happy fairies in the rain to me, I loved it so much. It was _Jeux d’eux by--’_

 _'_ Maurice Ravel. I remember him.’

‘Remember?’ Stiles queried confusedly then in realization, chuckled softly to himself. ‘I forgot the nature of your life for a moment there.’

Each of Klaus’ strides was fluid. It was almost an art, the way he carried himself. It stole reason from Stiles and replaced it with longing.  
Klaus’ heart ached under his breast. When would he get to kiss Stiles?  
  
‘You were saying?’  
 _Maurice.  
_ ‘Yes. Apologies,’ long wistful fingers dared breeze past the fleshy part of Stiles’ palm. Klaus drew them away as quickly as they’d reached, but Stiles felt it. It was like a brand on his skin and he wanted more.  
  
‘I met Maurice in London in 1900 at a small gathering where people wore masks over their feelings and tried to bleed perfection. _Les Apaches._ Most creatives at the time were insufferable. He was one of such people. Of course, my dear Ravel believed he could perfect any piece of music if given the time and that did not endear him to other composers.’

‘I can imagine.’ It amazed Stiles that he was speaking with a man who had lived several centuries and met the very composers and musicians he now strived to be.

‘Yes, no one would want to associate themselves with a man who always had some criticism about their work on hand. But…’ Klaus lifted a finger to fix a wayward curl, ‘He had an ear for music, that one. My brother would tell me. _Listen, Klaus, and listen again. Each time, you hear something new.’_

‘You’re not wrong,’ Stiles agreed, absolutely entranced by the story. ‘I never met the man, but I’ve studied him so much. I always pictured him as a romantic who strove for perfection, and now you’re giving me confirmation.’ His coffee toned head bent and he caught Klaus’ hand almost in a possessive gesture.  
  
He lurched in surprise, unsure if Stiles had done so to hold it or to…  
‘If you see this part here, this scar,’ Stiles pointed to a light cut, long healed. Klaus could think of nothing else but what his soft skin felt like against his, except for the rougher press of his well-worn fingertips.  
‘I got that from a small surgery. That was the year Liszt and Ravel gave me tendinitis.’

Barely concealing his disappointment, Klaus’ face gloomed over when Stiles pulled away, not without some reluctance on Stiles' part. Any stolen touch was paradise.  
‘I can imagine you strive for the same perfection, Stiles,’ Klaus breathed, the graze sending little tingles of excitement up and down his spine. ‘Maurice, he calculated every single note though, nothing was left to chance. I see some of that madness in your playing, too. You remind me of him.’

‘I wonder if he ever fell in love.’ _Have you fallen in love, Klaus?_ Stiles wanted to ask. ‘They said he was an eternal bachelor.’

‘It was never confirmed publicly, but most in his inner circle knew he was homosexual. But you know, those times… ‘  
  
Klaus transported himself there. To Maurice’s bedroom. To their afternoons lounging among expensive linens, Maurice's inked-stained hands interlaced with Klaus' paint-kissed ones. He so rarely opened himself up to anyone, and in that he and Klaus had found blissful camaraderie.  
‘We… we were together for a time. He was very handsome and so passionate. Our brief affair burned bright, but then just as quickly… He wasn’t made for distractions. Men like him never are. I fear the only love affair Ravel ever truly indulged himself in was with his music.’  
  
Stiles envied the man. He’d not only been born with an immense talent, he’d gotten to love someone like Klaus. Even if it was for a blink in the vampire’s lifetime.  
  
‘The war nearly broke him though,’ Klaus continued, ‘if it hadn’t been for his love of music, he would have been lost. Each time I saw him after that, he was before a piano, agonizing over feelings and the sensitivity of the notes he was scribbling to parchment.’ 

Klaus had understood the pianist’s struggles deeply. Love, life, reconciling his wavering humanity to what his nature was. He had agreed at the time that loving people was pointless, an endeavor that would only end in agony and death for all parties involved.  
Such dark years they’d lived, Klaus mused.  
  
He didn’t believe that any longer. Here standing next to him was a chance to be brought forth into the light again, and it was all Klaus desired. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt is from Liszt's biography of Chopin.  
> I can't speak to Ravel's sexuality, it's obviously for the purposes of the story. But I could really see him and Klaus together for a bit.  
> Thanks for reading! We're almost there, very soon Klaus and Stiles will finally break down and get together!


	6. Jeux d'eau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resistance was futile, and they both knew it. Stiles and Klaus finally share their first kiss.

_‘Niklaus’ Maurice would say, illuminated beautifully by candlelight, the piano gleaming before him. He was often surrounded by a sea of papers with crossed-out letterings, the ones he hadn’t discarded strewn all around the bench. Klaus loved to watch him compose, not only to get a glimpse into how his brilliant mind worked but also because he was stunning as he did so.  
‘What do you think of this, darling?’  
Klaus would tip his head and hold his breath. No matter what he made the piano sing, it moved him, sometimes even to tears. ‘Exquisite, Maurice. Exquisite.’_

_Those were the only moments when Ravel was ever untidy. He’d sit in an otherwise perfectly pressed shirt, but the sleeves would be rolled up to his elbows and his hair still held the finger rakes from Klaus’ caresses. His blackened fingertips would leave smudges on his forehead when Maurice would absent-mindedly reach up to rub there.  
Maurice’s brow furrowed more often than Klaus liked, though. The self-doubt crept in and shadowed his moods. He was a man, after all, a mortal with his almost crippling desire for perfection not allowing for any reprieve from self-criticism.   
Klaus so wanted to show him what he saw, the music he heard. Maurice wasn't able to objectively judge anything about himself or his craft._

_'Does it ever occur to people that I may be artificial by nature?’ he’d asked Klaus once.  
Klaus had leaned against the window, wondering if his lover’s blood would taste as complex as was the man himself.  
‘We are all artificial by nature, love. It is our environments that mold us, carve us into being. Whether people realize that or not, it doesn’t matter. But of all the men I know, you, dearest Maurice, are the least artificial of them all.’  
  
Klaus had gone to him then, his thoughts fuddled and his lips performing as hungry a search of his mouth as his soul that ached to know his secrets. He loved Maurice, and his passion for him was more than Maurice ever could reciprocate. Klaus didn’t blame him… never would. It was Ravel’s nature to be married to the music. He would attempt to hide his inner misery from Klaus’ probing stare, but Niklaus knew him better than anyone. He felt the raw ache within him, eating him up.  
‘You always have the right words, Klaus, even though your countenance is forbidding’ he turned back to his laboring again and _ _Klaus laughed._

‘You said you saw him a few more times after that?’ It was as though Stiles had met the man, the way Klaus described him in loving detail.

Klaus sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. ‘The accident was the beginning of his downward spiral, and I’m afraid I had some family matters to attend to during that period. So it was not for a long while.’

Stiles wondered what had kept him away but didn't press the matter. 

Continuing their stroll, they arrived at the City Park while the sun was high in the sky, which caused Stiles to realize they'd been walking quite a while. Time always flew when he was in Klaus’ company, and only in the best way possible.  
‘Shall we go in?’ Klaus gestured, to which Stiles merely nodded.

As they ventured inwards, a slight breeze lifted Klaus’ dirty blonde locks and brushed over his brow. Lean digits ran through them. Adjusting his face to establish perspective, Stiles held in a deep breath.  
How could Klaus just keep getting more and more beautiful?

Catching sight of something ahead, Klaus’ eyes lit up and he turned to Stiles with a wide grin.

‘It’s still here.’ Klaus was beaming.  
‘You… You want me to play here?’ asked Stiles with saucered eyes that were near translucent in the sunlight.  
  
Breathtaking, Klaus thought. He was completely taken with him, and it was becoming more and more difficult to resist.  
It was like two pieces of blue tempered glass squinted at him, and Stiles felt it all the way to his toes! 

‘Do you not want to? I won’t force you, Stiles.’

‘Well...’ Stiles glanced around, watching couples and some scattered groups of friends milling about. It wasn't overly crowded. 

‘You will not be playing for them, darling. You will be playing for me.’ He could read Stiles' mind by now.   
  
_Darling. Ah, the man did know his buttons._ Kneading his hands, Stiles rolled his head in a circle. ‘Alright. For you. Would you like to hear _Jeau d’eux?_ ’

‘Absolutely.’

And so Stiles sat at the upright piano, lifting the fall. It was old but looked recently repainted, as though someone had donated it to the park. Miraculously, all the keys were still intact and he wondered if it still held its tune. Though standing in a place of permanent shade, the humidity and heat would not do it well. ‘Has it been here long?’ Stiles asked. The antique feel of it put him at ease and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, gaining focus.

‘Just a week. Elijah told me about it. They’re due to move it soon because of the elements, you see. I was hoping it was still here so you could get a chance to play on it. It shouldn’t be terribly out of tune, I know the company that placed it here had it tuned the same day.’  
Klaus stood far enough away to not be a lingering presence, but close enough to where he could absorb the scene (and Stiles’ enticing scent wafting over on the gentle breeze).  
  
‘Right,’ Stiles popped his eyes open. ‘Let’s begin.’  
  
Klaus observed in awe as the young pianist brought Ravel back to life right before his eyes. 

_Music is an emotion first, then intellect_ his Maurice would say, and Klaus saw both in Stiles Stilinski. The sun lit his hair until it gleamed and Klaus restrained the urge to run his fingers through it like he used to do for Ravel.  
He imagined kissing every mole, every freckle on the man’s face, and then doing the same along his flesh as he undressed him. He wanted to watch Stiles’ eyes darken and his breath catch with pleasure as they made love. Klaus desired nothing else but to hold him and whisper his name against his ear as they climaxed, a declaration of deep sentiment trapped behind bruised lips.  
Klaus wanted a lot of things, but for now, he would simply listen to the poetry created by Stile’s magic hands.

It was as though Stiles were a conduit for the emotion Ravel hoped to pass with this piece. He wove the melodic and rhythmic motives in such a way it reminded Klaus of nature and its children, flitting about on the surface of flowing water. It was both soothing and energizing, if such a thing could be.

The tempo became livelier as Stiles’ fingers flew over the keys, pulling them deeper and deeper into the water until the world was muted and slow and only the thumping of Stiles’ heart was all Klaus could hear.

He loved this peace dearly, like he'd loved Maurice. The sun was scorching on his neck, something he had been denied for decades before relief, and the notes danced over his skin like small fireflies until he was lit up with the heat of the music… and his passion for the man playing it.

_Dear god, I’m gone for you._

So lost were they in the melody, neither realized that they had garnered an audience. People gathered to watch and listen as Stiles made the notes literally breathe vitality.  
It was enchanting, the way he played, whimsical and purposeful. Ravel had never liked any liberties being taken with his music, but somehow, Stiles managed to stick to the essence of the piece and maintain his individuality at the same time. As the last bar filtered out, they came back to reality accompanied by the sound of clapping and laughter.

But Stiles only had eyes for his patron when he touched back to earth, and Klaus only for Stiles.  
Stiles’ limbs felt weak and his pulse thrummed, hard and quick, like a frightened rabbit’s. He wanted- no _he longed_ for so much, and yet he did not think he should have it. As if it was too much to ask for, to be able to love this man standing before him.   
  
A pinched expression spoke to Stiles’ inner conflict, his trembling lip to the need. It was in that stricken look that Klaus got his confirmation; it was suddenly too much.

‘Stiles.’ The name was punctuation. It happened so quickly Stiles didn’t register it at first. Klaus strode up to him with intent and lifting him from the stool, captured Stiles’ lips with his.

Stiles immediately sighed into him. Their lips meshed and Klaus swallowed his breath. It was sluggish, with long lazy sweeps, as though they didn’t have a crowd observing them. Much like the music, their first kiss was a slow enchanting waltz above a shimmering pond beneath a full moon.  
Pure romance.  
  
He intoxicated Stiles like fine liquor and the loveliness of their intense first kiss sent a bolt of hunger and carnal delight through them both.

‘Klaus,’ Stiles whispered, breaking only a second, before his hands roamed upwards to curl around Klaus’ neck. They tightened, pulling them chest to chest and back into a smoldering, frantic tease of tongues.  
  
The hooting of a few people cheering them on was now far away, nor did they notice when they slowly began dispersing. Klaus’ lips were heaven and hell at the same time: they promised paradise and inflicted torture on Stiles’ senses.

Pressing his forehead to Stiles’, Klaus’ face softened in bliss. ‘You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that, love.’  
‘Kiss me again, Klaus.’  
Stiles’ didn't waste other precious seconds. His tongue darted out and pressed against the seam of Klaus' supple lips and he wondered if he would scare the man away by biting into their softness. Like flower petals blooming at the touch of the sun, Klaus shivered as their tongues met once more.

Klaus’ hands were like iron rods cinching around him, the fingers gripping his hips tight until he groaned. The kiss spun out and deepened, as though they were fused. He explored him so thoroughly that by the time they separated, Stiles was panting with lust, as pink as the flowers growing behind him.

‘Stiles,’ Klaus murmured with a lick of his lips, and like magic, the world rushed back to them. The park was nearly empty and clouds sat in front of the sun like guards, shading the area.

‘That was- ‘ Stiles stammered, something he hadn’t done in years. Klaus had skillfully kissed away his wits.

‘That, my dear Stiles, was worth the wait.’ His hands trailed down his shoulders and swept over his hands, kissing the tips. Klaus lifted one and brought it to his lips in a scorching kiss.  
‘These are exceedingly gifted. Your spin on the pieces is captivating, I felt as though I could see Ravel again. But I could also see you, Stiles, right beside him.’

Stiles blushed furiously and ducked his head. Of course he had heard his fair share of praise, but none like Klaus just uttered. ‘Thank you. I’ll be sure to take it to heart.’

Klaus was looking at him in a way that made him burn. There was almost an imperceptible note of pleading in his face.  
It no longer mattered to him, whether Stiles was a doppelganger. He loved Stiles Stilinski, the man standing before him now. Not some ancestor or his double.  
 _  
_Stiles let out a breath doused in passion. His hooded gaze spoke for him. _Was he supposed to kiss his employer? Where did they go from here? How could he go back to just being his hired musician?_

Apparently, Klaus already knew his heart. He reached out and swiped an eyelash away from the apple of Stiles’ ruddy cheek. _  
_“I’ve fallen for you, Stiles. I fear I can’t let you go now, love, because it would paralyze me to living. Will you stay a while, let me adore you some more?’

He'd decided not too long ago that he couldn't deny this man any wish. After his declaration he wasn't going to start now.  
Stiles nodded, a promising fixity descending over his expression. He was unable to speak, his skin still burning from the memory of Klaus' touch.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've been enjoying the story. :) Thank you for reading.  
> If you'd like to listen to the piece Stiles plays, here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnKFIp7CahY

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is for future chapters. Some tags including certain characters are for future chapters. We'll be getting to the good stuff soon (smut!). Story and time lines may be played with to make it all work. I try to stay rooted in canon as much as possible within the confines of the musical AU aspect of the story.  
> Title from the book by Nabokov.  
> Thanks for giving this story a shot. Kudos and comments are very appreciated. This story is all done, I just edit each chapter before posting in case I missed something or I want to add/change elements.


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